“The people in the painting don’t compare themselves to the people around them, so there is no need for luxury. They have no religion, so they have no fear. If they’re hungry, they eat anything they want. If something hurts, they ingest something to make the pain go away. If they want to fight, they fight; if they want to f***, they f***.”
James murmured to himself.
“I bet Mrs. Schwartz looking for a good place to get her cat groomed loved that last one.”
Avery never explained the knives, or the target, or the robes. In fact, James had to raise his eyebrows at the entire narrative. He had read more than his fair share of suspect interviews and criminal confessions. He could tell by word choice and the flow of the language whether or not a person meant what they were saying. Assuming the writer of the article wasn’t taking creative license, Avery was spewing out some serious cow plop.
He took another look at the painting and thought about the gang at the barn.
“I guess the question is…what inspired what. Either way, I really want to talk to this guy.”
“What’s that, babe?”
“Just talking to myself. What do you think of this?”
“I like it.”
“You like it?”
James was surprised. Julie knew her stuff when it came to art. Avery’s sophomoric vision seemed below her.
“Yeah, I do. Look…”
She pressed up behind him and put her chin on his shoulder as she pointed out the elements of Avery’s work.
“…some paintings look for two reactions; one at perception, and one at assimilation. At first glance, this bit in the middle comes off as misogynistic, but look at the postures. Look at the expressions on the women’s faces. The men aren’t being entertained; they’re being held at bay. The background appears to advocate violence, but no one is getting hurt.”
“What about the fist fights? These two guys are beating the snot out of each other.”
“Yeah, but that’s UFC/Fight Club stuff. They’re having fun. There are also no weapons involved. The only weapons on the canvas are the knives, and they’ve been aimed at a thing, not a person. In fact, all of the violence has been aimed at things, and all of those things could be viewed as symbols of a judgmentally-driven, materialistic society. There’s an HDTV, there’s a Porsche, there’s some high-end furniture. They haven’t been destroyed purely for the sake of violence. They’ve been destroyed because they’re not needed.”
“What about the food and the drugs?’
“I don’t see anyone obese or overdosed. People generally overindulge in their vices as a way to escape their reality. Maybe in this reality they do things in moderation because they’re looking to enhance rather than escape. C’mon, open the unused part of your brain a little.”
James gave it a shot, but all he could see was a bunch of eating, pill popping, and whacking off.
“Is all this off the top of your head, or have you been gazing at this thing all afternoon?”
“I had to do something while you were strip searching girlfriend at the Galleria.”
“Shut up. That’s not fair. Well…I don’t get it, but if you think it’s good, I’ll give Avery his due props.”
“I do think it’s good …”
James’ body covered with goose bumps as a gentle hand grazed the length of his back and worked around to his front. Warm breath and a whisper filled his ear.
“…I also think you should put it down now.”
James whole-heartedly agreed, and the magazine found its way violently to the floor followed closely by the backgammon board.
12. Sitting in Zed Zed
It had been two months since Gordy first worked up the courage to walk into a UJ party uninvited. Arthur had lost count of the number of times he wished he’d stuck one of his Doc Martins up that little puke’s ass the instant his oxygen-stealing, pock-marked face came stumbling through the big barn door.
The specifics of that night were sketchy. Arthur must have been on at least four mind-bending substances most of the day. He remembered telling Gordy that he could hang out if he passed the initiation. There, of course, was none. Unjudged membership was by invitation only.
Arthur couldn’t recall exactly what he told Gordy he had to do, but it must have involved Mayor Winkler’s farm. Everyone was duly impressed and surprised when Gordy walked into the barn three hours later with one of Her Honor’s cows in tow. Gordy was, as a result, allowed into the group at an entry level position. There, of course, was no such thing.
All three of them (counting Zed Zed) sat in silence across the street from a bar called Frankie and Jimmy’s. The owners, Frank and Jim Cutillo, were third-generation Potterford natives. The friends they’d made through the years helped them dance around Pennsylvania’s Puritanical liquor laws. Theirs was the only bar open on a Sunday night.
“You see, Artie! I told ya!”
“Don’t call me Artie.”
The little puke was right. Through Zed Zed’s driver’s side window, foggy from the mist of a zillion sneezes, Arthur saw Reilly.
What Kelly didn’t know, and therefore didn’t tell Lynch at the Galleria, was that the coffee-spilling R.N. at the I.C.U. had become rather smitten with Traci and her breasts. After he saw Jeremy’s crazy reaction to Reilly and Warner, he chased Traci down in the
